


Oggi Mi Sento Benedetto

by sleazyjanet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 19:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20493989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleazyjanet/pseuds/sleazyjanet
Summary: Gabriel, Crowley's coworker and fellow teacher won't take no for an answer and insists on going on a date with him. Crowley therefore decides to go to the school prom with Aziraphale as his boyfriend.Chaos ensues.





	Oggi Mi Sento Benedetto

**Author's Note:**

> HULLO, it's me again, for the second prompt of the good omens ficweek! fake dating!  
i'm sorry i made GABRIEL of all people like crowley but ah, writing in under 24 hours can be pressuring.
> 
> still, shoutout to the msfc for this prompt
> 
> signed, a rat

"Listen, angel, you need to be my boyfriend," announces Crowley after pouring Aziraphale a nice cup of hot cocoa and handing it to him. They're in the other professor's house, technically, but nobody would be the wiser.

Aziraphale coughs, ideas swimming in his mind in a whirlwind. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's not a big deal, really," Crowley waves his hand and pours himself a glass of sprite, its sparkles disturbing the otherwise eerie silence. "I just need a boyfriend for the prom."

The English professor frowns. "Dear boy, you do realize we're professors, right? You don't  _ actually _ need a boyfriend. And anyway," he sips from his cup and clears his throat, "it's hardly appropriate. We're colleagues, I don't think that's allowed."

That elicits a groan from the lanky middle aged man. "Tell that to that dickhead Gabriel."

"Well, I will," says Aziraphale proudly, then his eyebrows furrow slightly and he turns his head to face Crowley's mortified features. "Why Gabriel, of all people?"

With an exaggerated sigh the lanky Music professor flops upon the opposing armchair and parts his legs as usual, then hides his head between his hands to mumble, " _ Hewantstogoonadatewithmeandwon'ttakenoforananswer." _

"I'm sorry, dear," chuckles Aziraphale, hiding his smile behind his mug, "I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that."

Crowley groans. "Ugh, bugger you, angel. I said he's interested in me and won't accept the fact that  _ I'm not interested. _ Not in him, at least."

The last remark goes lost on Aziraphale, who sets down his mug and shakes his head with a solemn, serious look writ on his face. "Oh, what a dose he is."

"Dose?" the dark haired professor tilts his head with a quirky smile upon his thin lips. "Where'd you learn Irish insults, eh?"

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "I'll have you know that as an English professor I have very expanded knowledge of infinitesimal words and expressions, and some of them just happen to be also Irish, is all."

"Right, or you watched that show,  _ Derry Girls _ , didn't you?"

Whether Aziraphale confirms that or not is muffled by the mug he pulls to his lips, but it's enough to make Crowley grin like a madman, his hazel, almost yellow eyes sparkling with delight so bright that Aziraphale nearly swoons.

"Anyway," he clears his throat to shake away any involuntary thoughts, "you mentioned being boyfriends. It's, of course, not entirely an option I approve of, but tell me, how do you think that would help?"

Crowley rolls his eyes. "How?"

"Yes, dear boy,  _ how _ ."

"Well, it's cause I told that dickhead that I couldn't go out with him because I already had a boyfriend." The man pauses to watch Aziraphale nod, then continues. "Well, he wouldn't take it. He laughed in my face and claimed he'd have known if I was dating anyone, as the only person circling around me is… well… you."

Again, the English professor nods. "Yes. That's fair. And?"

_ I was hoping you'd leave it there _ , thinks Crowley ashamedly, grimacing. "Weeeeeell, I panicked and I told him  _ you _ were my boyfriend and that you circling around me was simply you being a doting boyfriend."

"But we never kiss! Nor hold hands!"

"Well, we're not like those disgusting straight people who have to mash their mouths together every passing moment in the middle of a park, where  _ kids _ could see them," he points out, which the other man allows with a half-hearted ' _ eek'. _ "We're professional men and we don't let our professional lives interfere with our work."

"I see."

"So?" Crowley nearly jumps out of his chair to kneel near Aziraphale and grab his hand. "Will you do it? For a friend, eh?" His eyes glare into Aziraphale's deeply and it makes the slightly older man shift in his seat, an uncomfortable heat rising up his collar.

The truth is, of course, he  _ does _ want to accommodate Crowley, and agree to this absurd farce of an idea, and he wouldn't certainly mind holding the man's hand, or even dancing with him during prom, if occasion asked for it, but— oh, he doesn't know a  _ but _ , he simply knows there is one and that, in itself, ruins everything.

He sighs, helping Crowley up and letting his hand still on the man's arm. "I'll do it." Upon Crowley's bright smile, his heart squeezes and he frowns. "But under some conditions."

"Oh?"

"For one, it's only for the prom, dear boy. After that you will say we have amiably split, or something." Crowley opens his mouth to disagree, that  _ Gabriel could ask him out again, though _ , but Aziraphale shushes him with a soft finger on his lips. "And you will dress nicely for the occasion, and refrain yourself from insulting Gabriel too much."

"But—but, he–he's a dose,  _ you  _ said so!"

"Those are my conditions, dear. Take that, or leave it."

Crowley relents, then, with an exaggerated sigh, and they shake hands, smiling softly as if they have just finished writing a book, not agreed to partake in a fake relationship.

  
  


————

  
  


The day of the prom, Crowley parks his Bentley outside of Aziraphale's apartment at two in the afternoon, eager to start before the English professor could back away. He's sure the man's fretting over his choice of clothes and stacking papers on papers of reason why they  _ shouldn't  _ be doing this, and snacking on the crisps that they're meant to leave for the kids. It makes his smile softly at the thought, the English professor complaining later in the hotel conference room — that unluckily  _ Aziraphale _ had to choose, which means it's most likely boring, unless his plans to sneak some black balloons and decorations that he sent out to kids worked — and apologizing to everyone.

Crowley, of course, is already dressed for the occasion: a black tux and a proper white shirt that he'd found neat and clean, suspenders to please Aziraphale's old-fashioned mind and a red tie. He hopes that will allow Aziraphale to fake  _ proper _ interest in him while fawning over his clothes, if anything.

It does make him tingle, pretending to date the angelic professor, making him smile fully if only for one night, sitting next to him, as always, and holding his hand, and maybe pulling him into a dark corner and—.

He shakes his head and exists his car, softly patting the top of it and whispering, "Wish me good luck, Bentley," then swiftly running to the door to ring the bell. He adjusts his tie after ringing it and slickens his hair with his hand and fakes disinterest when Aziraphale beams at him and invites him inside.

"Oh, dear, I hope you can excuse the mess I've made. I'm afraid I've been rather preoccupied, I've been." The English professor blushes with his words and his blush extends to his unusually slightly free chest. Crowley has to clear his throat to look away and stare at the mirror instead. "I just can't figure out what to wear! I've chosen all the clothes for the kids, of course, and they liked them." He frowns. "Or said they did. But I can't figure out my own!"

"Angel, angel, calm down." Under Aziraphale's doe-eyed gaze he sighs. "Alright,  _ I _ will choose your clothes. That's what a boyfriend would do, right?"

A small smile blooms on the English professor's lips and it extends to Crowley's suffering heart.

Most of Crowley's choices don't appear to Aziraphale's liking either. The man prefers old-fashioned and agrees that suspenders and a bowtie work nicely, but the lack of waistcoat seems to throw him off the edge.

"Angel, with a waistcoat you'll be forced to dance less Macarena with the kids, and are you sure you want  _ that?"  _ he snickers and it earns him a slap on the arm, but it does bring another smile on the man's lips – and that's enough.

They agree to lose the waistcoat but to give him a trenchcoat instead of his usual one, and tight, brown faux-leather shoes.

"And this top hat, too, may I wear it, dear boy?" asks Aziraphale with a wicked grin when he hands the Music professor a black hat out of which falls out a deck of cards.

"No magic tricks, angel!"

The man snorts. "My agreement never mentioned no magic tricks. I shall consider them. But," he pats on Crowley's chest, "for you I'll try not to."

  
  


————

  
  


They leave the house at nearly 4pm and despite the English professor's screams and cries, Crowley speeds through the London suburbs' area like a madman. The hotel they've chosen is in Tadfield, as is their school, but both of them live outside of it for privacy reasons. After all, nobody in Tadfield ever gets any privacy at all.

It's a small hotel, and possibly the only there. Very accommodating and with a large enough dance floor to presume someone wished  _ really _ hard for it. There are already cars lining up before the entrance, which makes Aziraphale fret and complain, but Crowley believes it's better like this, all things considered.

"If we're the only ones here, no one can see us coming out of the car together, angel. But, as is it, people  _ will _ see and it'll get to Gabriel," murmurs Crowley after helping the angel out of the Bentley and laying a hand on his back.

"We always get out of the car together, Crowley," points out Aziraphale, then whimpers, his brows furrowing together. "I don't have a driving license since—."

"I know. I know. But entertain me here, would you?"

And entertain he does. Immediately a hand clasps tight on his and fingers intertwine with his proudly and when they begin walking and Aziraphale leans into him to comment the surroundings, Crowley is sure there's a bird singing in his heart.

At the reception Michael, the Physics professor, greets them with a smile. "Some of the local kids have already turned up. The ones who live outside of town are yet to come, but the party does only start in an hour and half so we can be certain they will come."

"Oh, they will," reassures her Aziraphale, squeezing Crowley's hand to prompt the man to speak as well.

"Ah, yes," nods Crowley. "Yes. They're all fond of prom. What with their fake tans and straightened hair, and homemade biscuits they're bound to sell to 7 years. They wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Yes, rather. And," he continues, "the amazing dresses and suits we teachers picked up for them. They won't be told apart."

"But that's what they like!"

Michael nods, unconvinced, then shakes her head. "Well, I'll be off into the conference room, now, to set everything up. Can you two help Gabriel and Uriel with the reception of students? The Them still haven't arrived, and I'd rather not be here when they do."

The Them are 11 years, so technically they're allowed to sell the biscuits, but everyone knows of their homemade biscuits by now for they had been bringing them in the past years as well, and they're bound to bring some again.

The prospect of speaking to Gabriel and Uriel chills the pair, but they walk over to the other two teachers bravely anyway. If any of them squeezes the other's hand too tight, neither complains, at least.

"Crowley! Aziraphale! You've come!" greets them Gabriel, then his eyes fall to their interlocked hands. "Ah, you're  _ together _ , here. Well," he scoffs, "don't let the kids see you."

Despite Aziraphale's widened eyes, Crowley doesn't let his hand go. He leans over to him instead and, "He's only trying to guilt you, angel, don't let him," he whispers. 

"He's doing a fine job of it!"

Again, Gabriel grins at them and interrupts their agitated conversation. "It's rude to whisper in other people's company! But, Aziraphale, you look dashing in this trenchcoat and hat. A magician, are you?"

Simultaneously with Aziraphale's excited "Yes!", Crowley groans. "I have a deck of cards in me coat and who knows, I might entertain!"

"Entertain me, then!" Gabriel grins and looks over at Crowley with a glint in his eyes. "I'm a fan of cards, I am."

Luckily, Uriel takes over the conversation and advises Aziraphale not to play cards, and then Greasy Johnson shows up and they're pulled into their teacher jobs. 

"I brought me mom's cupcakes, teach's," mumbles the boy sheepishly. "Where should I lay them down? She made chocolate ones, and strawberry ones, and even a vanilla cupcake with a raspberry on top."

Aziraphale nearly jumps into action to help the boy out with laying down the sweets, but one look from Crowley reminds him of his mission and he lets Uriel take over the job instead.

"Splendid, these kids are, bringing food made by their parents instead of their own," Gabriel chuckles, nudging Crowley's shoulder. The latter immediately starts and shoots Aziraphale a pleading look. "Imagine the dread there'd be if they made the food instead."

"Ah, yes," whimpers the English professor, smiling kindly at the Chemistry professor. "Rather."

There's an unsettling feeling in his stomach whenever he sees the handsome, tall man look at Crowley. Despite the man's attitude, he is far more handsome than Aziraphale, he reckons, and smarter, too, and surely, Crowley could do better with him?

Swallowing a lump, he smile apologetically at Crowley and says, "I'm afraid I must use the restroom." And with that, he's gone.

"He's left, huh?"

"Bugger off," growls Crowley before following his angel into the restroom. 

He finds him fretting over his bowtie and removing his hat, only to put it back on. His hands are trembling and his teeth are worrying his lower lip. There's an aura of worry around the man, trembling all over. 

"Hey."

Through the mirror, Aziraphale spots Crowley and smiles weakly. "Hi."

With a few steps, the Music professor closes the distance between them. "Are you alright?" he asks, one hand on Aziraphale's cheek. "Did you pee alright?"

The older man rolls his eyes. "You know very well I wouldn't have had time to pee."

_ Playing hard to get, then _ . Crowley wouldn't let him.

"Alright. What's wrong, then?"

"Nothing!" When Crowley glares and removes his hand, Aziraphale nearly groans and fidgets, adjusting his bowtie once again. "I didn't like the way he was behaving, is all." His fingers tug at the cloth and try to readjust it angrily. "He was trying to mock me. And he was flirting with you, and nudging you, being all over you, with no regard to your boyfriend, as if I wasn't there!"

_ Boyfriend,  _ a part of Crowley sings.  _ Shut up _ , says another.

"Of course he was, I told you," he retorts eventually, swatting Aziraphale's hands away to fix his bowtie. "That's why I need you. He'll stop, eventually." His hands linger on the man's throat and he lets his gaze fall upon them. 

"Will he?" His gaze jerks back up to Aziraphale's eyes and he nods firmly.

"If you play your part well enough, he will." That seems to placate the man. With one last tug and pat, he lets the bowtie go, but doesn't move away. "There," he murmurs, "it's perfect now."

"Yes," breathes Aziraphale. "Rather."

They stand still in that position, neither daring to move.

"It's just for tonight, anyway," Crowley continues after a moment of charged silence. A part of him wishes to slap him for interrupting the silence, another thanks him. "We'll sit as far from him as possible and then we'll tell him to fuck off if he won't stop it, alright?"

Aziraphale nods, albeit weakly, and gulps. "Alright."

"Great!" 

Crowley grins, as he's wont to do, and grabs the other professor's arm cheekily. "Now, dear boy _ friend _ , let's go meet all the other kids and take our seats. Who do you prefer between Dagon and Beelzebub and Shadwell and Madame Tracy?"

"Oh, sly serpent," he grunts, but a pleased smile lingers on his lips.

As soon as they step out, Crowley stumbles into Pepper, one of the Them.

"Watch your step!"

Aziraphale doesn't approve of her tone. "Young lady, don't speak to your elders like that, now. That's not nice."

"Whatever," she replies, rolling her eyes pointedly.

Just then, another one of the Them pops out of the girls' restroom and grabs her by the shoulder with one hand, while the other holds a tray. "Pepper! Come here!" Urges Brian, not even looking at the two teachers. "Adam wants us to decide—  _ oh." _

_ Oh _ is the moment his eyes finally assess that the teachers are there and his hand drops. 

"Oh, indeed," Crowley hisses. "What have you got there, lad?"

"Scones, sir."

"There weren't any scones on the list of sweets we were bound to bring."

Brian looks away in shame, not feeling rebellious enough to speak out to his teachers. "No, there weren't."

Pepper, however, is feeling brave just enough. "These are  _ our _ scones, Mr. Crowley. We want them for  _ us _ . We made them all together, so they're  _ special _ to us and frankly, you shouldn't take them from us."

"Young  _ lady _ ," insists Aziraphale once again, leaning closer to Crowley pointedly. "You know Mr. Crowley and I don't approve of not sharing. Everything you bring here is to be sold or eaten by us."

"But—."

Crowley extends his hand to Brian and continues Aziraphale's thought. "Give the tray to us, now. I'm sure you have more, that you are now obliged to bring to Michael so that the kids can eat them, and you with them, but not this one."

Aziraphale nods. "This one's ours."

"For the teachers," finishes Crowley smartly and grins at his boyf–  _ fake _ boyfriend cheekily for their coordination. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have seats to grab."

If the kids have any contrasting opinions, the two pay them no heed.

  
  


————

  
  


"This scone is delicious," claims Aziraphale after taking a bite or two. Everything seems to simply melt in his mouth, all the flavours swirling around until he feels like he is seeing colors – and tasting them. He hums loudly, granning Crowley's thigh in earnest and squeezing it. "My dear, you have to try it!"

Before he can so much as open his mouth, Aziraphale pushes the half eaten scone into his mouth and urges him to open up, the hand on his thigh traveling up to steady the teacher. Some of the crumbs end up in his mouth, but when the cinnamon reaches his nose, he sneezes and all the rest comes out too. 

Immediately, Aziraphale finds a handkerchief and cleans him dotingly, which confuses Crowley even more. With a hand on the man's should he pulls back ever so slightly and looks him in the eye. "Hng, angel, what are you doing?"

The older teacher eyes him curiously and leans near his ear. "Feeding you, doting on you, as a boyfriend would. Isn't that would you wanted?"

There's a bite to his voice Crowley can't identify, and ignores.

"I do want that," he admits, eyeing Gabriel on the opposite side of the round table (a seat they weren't too proud of, but anything was better than Gabriel sitting next to either of them), then glancing back to his friend. "But I'm allergic to cinnamon, remember?"

Aziraphale appears to sober up, then, and pulls away. "Right, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I was just—."

"It's okay," Crowley reassures, grabbing the hand on his thigh and interlacing their fingers. "Pass me one of those vanilla cupcakes, instead."

For the next ten minutes, Aziraphale makes a show of feeding him the cupcake and catching the crumbs with accompanying giggles. 

Though he won't admit, Crowley swoons.

The English professor seems to also really enjoy the scones. So much, that he eats at least two and half before he starts grabbing other food so greedily Crowley has to pull him back into his seat and remind him that others need to eat, as well.

"I'm hungry," complains the doe-eyed teacher. "I feel like I haven't eaten in days."

_ Clearly you have been starving,  _ thinks Crowley bitterly, _ yes. _

"You know, dear, I think this might be the most scrumptious meal I've had during a school meeting," the chubby professor admits proudly. "And you look  _ dashing _ with these suspenders, do you know?"

Crowley has just removed his jacket and now he's only wearing the shirt, the suspenders and the tie. All of which attract Aziraphale's attention.

"This red tie suits you so nicely, too," he murmurs, running a hand on its material, while the other grabs at the suspenders. "You should always wear these clothes."

"Always?" he cocks his head towards the man and arches an eyebrow. "Angel, you must be drunk. You usually hate my ties. Prefer bowties, remember?"

"I'm not drunk," giggles the man and despite the contradictory reaction, Crowley knows he can't be drunk. There hasn't been any alcohol around, not with the professors, and he would have noticed the man drinking any sneaky beverage as well.

Which doesn't excuse the overly touchy behavior. He decides, however, to blame it on the situation, and on the prospect of tricking everyone they're in love.

After all, they are faking it, right?

By the time the tables are pushed aside a little and the music starts, Aziraphale has eaten up to twenty biscuits and cupcakes and drank so much tea he excuses himself to the restroom again.

Which, unluckily, leaves Crowley sulking alone at the table, and while other teachers are engaging in group dances or drinking in far off corners, Gabriel deems it the right moment to sit down on Aziraphale's seat and prop himself on the table gleefully.

"He seems to be out of himself today, that boyfriend of yours. Some students have already taken photos and remarked on the issue at hand." He moves to straighten Crowley's pointedly, but the Music professor stops him. "Alright. I'm just trying to protect you."

"You're trying to get into my pants," scoffs Crowley. "And even if I didn't have a boyfriend, that just wouldn't happen. But, as it is, Aziraphale and I are very much satisfied together."

"That fat pr—." The words are successfully cut short by Crowley stomping on his foot. "Ow, I'm just telling the truth."

"It's all 'just' with you, isn't it, Gabriel?"

"I am a just person, you should know that."

"Religious upbringing that oddly enough allows you, a man, to prey on a man is not one I've heard of very often, but to each their own." He bites his lip, holding a chuckle in. "And more importantly, to me there's only Aziraphale."

Gabriel snorts. "Right. Then why aren't you with him in the toilets right now, making out?"

"We–we don't—."

The tall American leans over and props his arm on Crowley's shoulder. "The truth is, you and I both know you're not dating and that's why you aren't making out right now. Fake boyfriends don't kiss."

"Right," a somber voice on the opposite side whines, "it's a good thing we're not fake boyfriends."

Before Crowley can so much as process those words, two trembling hands grab at his suspenders and force him upright, then one of those hands unhooks and lays at the nape of his neck to bring him down into a kiss. 

Well, a kiss would be an exaggeration.

It's more of a mashing of mouths, teeth clanking and fingernails digging into his soft skin. But it makes him see stars nonetheless, every fiber in his being suddenly alive. Though at first his arms flail at his sides, he immediately finds the common sense to lay them on the man's waist where they remain even when the "kiss" is over.

Their foreheads remain pressed together, their breaths mingling. There's an earthy, odd scent to Aziraphale, but he can't identify it. Instead, he leans forward and with his mouth on the man's ear he whispers, "You didn't have to do that, you know?"

Aziraphale nods and pulls back, almost hurt. "I know." He gulps and looks away, focusing on the dumbstruck Chemistry professor. "Bugger off, Gabriel."

And bugger off he does.

"Well…," Crowley begins after seeing the man disappear. In the back of his mind he notices he's still holding the other teacher near, and that there are people looking at them, some with their phones out, but he couldn't care less. "That was—."

Just then, the music switches to Macarena and Aziraphale shoves him away into the crowd of kids he dives, to dance along. 

Wiggling, laying hands in the wrong order, laughing at his every move, the English professor sure makes a show of himself, if anything. Crowley watches from away, occasionally looking away when his breath hitches, or when his heart skips a beat, or when Aziraphale catches him staring and smiles ever so warmly. But all of it is worth it for the twinkle in his eye and the ruffled hair, the untied bowtie and— Crowley stops in his tracks when he sees Aziraphale with a full deck of cards entertaining some students.

_ When did that get there? _

There is at least a dozen of students encircling the beaming teacher, and Adam is there in the middle, king of kings as it is, grinning to his friends.

"Is that the card you had found?" asks Aziraphale pulling out a King of Hearts.

The kids gasp, clasping their hands on their mouths. "But  _ how? _ "

"Oh," the kind teacher laughs and flushes a deep red, "a magician never reveals his secrets, I'm afraid. It's just magic!"

"Now me, now me! Do me!" A small 8 year pushes Adam aside and braces himself against Aziraphale's knees to see properly. Before Aziraphale can even shuffle his cards, he snatches one away and beams. "There, I've found it. Now shuffle and find it yourself!"

The English professor obliges happily, and it continues on for a solid thirty minutes before the music once again becomes rocking — quite literally, as everyone jumps onto the floor to dance to  _ Rock The Boat. _

_ How am I in love with such a smart idiot?,  _ wonders Crowley, propping himself against a pier, then nearly drops when his mind catches up with his own thoughts and he stumbles.

_ In love? _

No, it can't be. This is just a fake relationship. Can he fake his feelings, too?

No, that's stupid.  _ Stupid Crowley. _

The kiss wasn't all that much. Electric in a way, surely exciting, but he hadn't suddenly fallen in love for such a bad kiss, had he?

_ Unless I was in love with him the whole time. _

It makes sense, of course, but it's stupid. If he loves him, he's doomed. Aziraphale is everything: adorable, smart, clever, funny – but not in love with him. There have been occasions when Crowley had the proof that Aziraphale is interested in men, having gone on dates with a few, dated even some, but never in Crowley.

_ Well _ , he thinks with a heavy heart,  _ at least I have tonight. Make the best of it, eh? _

  
  


With that thought, he hisses at the boy sitting behind Aziraphale and sits behind him, his feet lightly digging into his sides. 

"Angel, however do you like this song?"

The other man hums. "It's very fun, Crowley! Glad you could join!"

Seeing the man laugh brightens his night.

After the song is over, Crowley helps him to his feet and makes a show of holding his hand tightly, adjusting his hair. "You look great when you dance," he says tentatively, smiling.

"Why, you do, too," purrs Aziraphale. "No, you always look great. You're so  _ sexy.  _ Nay, you're _craic. Proper class, _you are. "

_ Right, Derry Girls. Twice in a row. Wow. _

And then he giggles. He throws his head back, holding himself still only by latching onto the taller man. Luckily, no one pays them any heed as they're all thrilled with the next song, one that Aziraphale only shows interest in by wiggling against Crowley's side and hooking an around around the taller man's back to pull him in for another kiss.

This one's calmer, more careful. Soft lips now fit purposefully against his own and press firmly. With a sigh he allows it, melts into it.

_ Coward _ , a dark voice growls in his head.  _ Pull him away. He doesn't seem to be in his right mind, you shouldn't allow this. Tomorrow this will be over, and then what? _

But he can't. His hands grab at the two ends of the bowtie's cloth and he uses them as anchor for his buckling legs.

He isn't sure how long it lasts, or whether anyone's seen. But he couldn't care less.

"Astounding, you are, dear boy," Aziraphale whispers when the kiss is over, his hand again interlacing with Crowley's own. "Let's check if some students have sneaked out, shall we?" he says aloud, a grin in his usually innocent eyes.

Crowley doesn't need more encouragement.

As soon as they turn a corner, Aziraphale pushes him against a wall and kisses him again, firm and strong, making everything short circuit in Crowley's mind, entirely. A hand slithers into Crowley's hair and soft fingers and manicured nails tug at it strongly, prompting the taller man to gasp and open his mouth to allow a wet tongue in.

A moan escapes from someone's lips, but no one's counting and then Aziraphale drops a little, leaving a wet trail of kisses on Crowley's cheek, then beneath his ear and on his neck.

It's all like a dream.  _ Is it a dream _ ? He questions feverishly as the older man nibbles against his neck and soothes the bruise with the tip of his tongue. Another moan escapes his lips at the sensation and his hips buckle up.  _ It can't be. Can it be? _

They're not with anyone else, that's true Aziraphale has no need to prove anything. 

And yet the knee pressing between his thighs seems to indicate otherwise. A  _ knee.  _

He sobers up, then, the thought of having sex in a hallway where anyone could see too much of a dreaded prospect to allow it, not even with Aziraphale. Or, above all, with Aziraphale. The man deserves more than that.

So he lays a hand between them and presses it against the shorter man's chest firmly, but gently. "Aziraphale, wait," he pleads and whether it's his voice or the hand that works, he can't tell, but Aziraphale stops and looks him in the eye. There's guilt in them, and lust.  _ Lust.  _ "Aziraphale, we're— you don't have to do this. We're not actually dating, you know?"

Something clicks then. The air stands still and a blanket of pain envelopes Aziraphale. He steps back once, then twice, looking down at his own hands in shame. "Right. I'm sorry. I should have realized– I thought—. I thought you wanted this, there were all these  _ signs _ , but— I'm sorry."

When Crowley reaches to stop him, to explain that he  _ does _ want it, that this simply isn't the time or place, and that he's sure the man is drunk and cannot  _ possibly _ love  _ him _ , Aziraphale pushes him away, shaking his head.

"It's okay, I understand," he murmurs.  _ No you don't. _ "I'm sorry. I—I'll go look at the children. You can join me, of course. We must put up a show of things, don't we?"

Crowley wants to shake him then, tell him that  _ no,  _ they don't need to fake anything because he loves him, he does, and there's no need to pretend, but one look into those pained eyes makes him realize the man wouldn't understand.

And so they spend the rest of the night caring for the kids, making sure they sell something and that they don't drink  _ too much _ , and though they hold hands and fret over each other's looks, it's different.

When they part at Aziraphale's house, it doesn't feel like they have accomplished anything. If anything, it feels like they have ruined it all.

  
  


————

  
  


Aziraphale wakes up at eight. It's not a school day, and he can go to Mass at any time, really, as long as he wishes to, for it's a Saturday and it's not  _ mandatory _ . But he doesn't wish to. Not after last night. Not after he has wronged Crowley so.

Because of course he has. He had misunderstood Crowley and had felt bolder than usual to initiate what he never would have. He briefly wonders what might have caused it, but he can't pinpoint it, and so he gives up.

Crowley pushed him away.  _ Crowley didn't want this. He didn't want to be kissed by me in a dark corner, he didn't want to feel me like that. _

He needs to apologize, properly. His heart is heavy with guilt and resentment for his own behavior, and he knows that only talking to Crowley could lessen it.

With trembling hands and a swimming head, he dresses himself for the occasion and walks to Crowley's house on foot. It doesn't take long before he's standing at the man's doorstep, a hand awaiting to knock at the door.

But he can't. Can he?

_ What if he doesn't want to see me anymore? What if he resents me now? What if he's realized that Gabriel is better than me and if I knock, it'll be Gabriel opening the door, grinning at me like he's won the lottery? _

The thoughts make him sweat, his heavy hands wrinkling his suit.

_ I can't do it. I must. But I can't. _

"Oh, I've made a mess of things!" he whimpers, and, it turns out, he doesn't need to knock.

"Aziraphale?" a voice behind him speaks and he turns around with a jump, the lump in his throat choking him up. Crowley is there, with groceries in his arms and a confused glint in his nearly golden eyes. "What— I thought— Why are you here?"

_Right._ _Foolish of me. He doesn't want to see me. _He shifts on his feet and steps away to let the man get to the door, gathers up his courage anyway. "I—I wanted to apologize."

"Apologize?" The younger teacher frowns, grimacing when the key barely twists in the lock and with a pleading look he immediately has Aziraphale twisting it for him, and then they're inside, somehow, standing in the doorways like two umbrellas left by their owners to dry, sad and oddly lonely even in each other's company.

"Yes. I had set up boundaries, and yet I hadn't followed them, and I—I pushed you against a  _ wall,  _ Crowley. Whatever was wrong with me, then, I can't explain, but," he pauses to breathe and lays a hand on the wall to steady himself, "Oh, dear,I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. It was wrong."

Crowley nods. "You needn't be sorry. We were fake boyfriends, right? Fake boyfriends kiss."

There's a pleading tone to his voice, and delusion, too, as if the person he's convincing of it is himself.

"I suppose so they do, dear boy, they rather do." He looks at the painting behind Crowley to avoid eye contact and gulps. "But I went beyond. I wanted, I yearned for much more, for it to be real, and true."

It's Crowley's turn to lay a hand on the wall to steady himself as his other hand pinches the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. Then those gentle eyes lock with Aziraphale's and he asks, ever so softly, "You wanted it?"

_ Yes. More than anything in the world. I wanted to make you tremble beneath me, I wanted to kiss your mouth, and your hands, and your chest. I wanted nothing more but to make you mine. _

But, "I'm not sure if me wanting anything helps or excuses anything at all," he says instead.

"It does!" Crowley nearly exclaims, inching closer to the shorter man in a heartbeat. His hand hovers near Aziraphale's warm, flushing cheek and he adds, "It does, because I wanted it too. I wanted it to be real, too."

Aziraphale leans into the hand and swallows the knot tying in his throat. "You did?"

"More than anything, angel."

"Why?"

He doesn't say it. Instead, he tilts his head down and his lips press against the other man's. The hand on his cheek slithers to the nape of his neck and slim fingers tug at the short hair as if meaning to underline a point. 

When it ends, Aziraphale asks, "Why, dear boy?" again, and grins against the other man's mouth when the kiss occurs again. He begins again over and over then, just to get a kiss. And another. 

Soon, he is panting and begging for more, and begging for an answer.

_ I need to know _ , he begs,  _ I need to know if you love me. _

Until, finally, Crowley says it. The truth. "Because I love you, angel," he murmurs and punctuates it with a peck. "I love you and there's nobody else I wanted to be my fake boyfriend because you're the only whom I wanted to date in truth as well."

Aziraphale sighs, and hums, dipping his head to kiss him again. "You're the only fake boyfriend I'd ever want too. And the only real one I'd want to be forever with." He kisses him, to confirm his words, then adds, "I love you."

"Say it again."

"I love you. So much. I don't know when it switched for me, when I realized, but I know I must have loved you for much longer than I knew, than I realized. And now," his gaze falls to the swollen lips of the other man, "now that I know I don't want to waste any more."

And perhaps that's what it is. Not good timing or bad timing. Not good reasons or bad reasons. It's about realizing, in the end, what's before your eyes and taking the step forward until the rest of your lives.

For humans are vain and arrogant and often forget how short their lives are, but it's always important to cherish the moments within.

Who knows what's coming?

  
  



End file.
